Reports of Our Death or Abduction Are Premature

We (that is the Human, in the royal sense of the "we") were on vacation in Israel, visiting our beautiful daughter. Sugar, however, stayed at home, or rather in a couple of homes, farmed out here and there. The result of all this tumult in her young life was a penchant for early hours and much wild running, and a complete de-programing of her potty training. Not to mention that she ran away several times, completely out of control. Once, hubby had to crawl under the fence, then chase her around the block; another time, her babysitter called the North Plainfield Police Department and a full-scale search was launched for a 6 pound trotting white poodle. There were tears, and I didn't actually know the extent of it till my return, but Sugar indeed had a time of enjoyable chaos.

Not content to make me clean up after her once again, upon my return, Sugar demonstrated her anger and resentment by ignoring me and turning up her twirly tail and swishing off away from me for a full twenty-four hours.

I think puppies don't have a very good handle on time, so by the next day (meaning two feedings by my hand) she gave me a pass.

But the short red leash is back on her, and I've discovered that a life without discipline is not worth living, not even for a dog. How she loves it when I gently yank on the leash after I've said "Come, Sugar" three or four times in vain. You can imagine. But the truth is that I now know that without the total mastery of this one command, the come, Sugar's life will always be at risk. It's the equivalent of children crossing the street alone or talking to strangers.

So here we are back at square one. But much has changed. I now have the courage of my convictions to parent (or train, if you must) this tiny hound; and I think she now has the trust that I have something for her that no one else has: the determination to see it through. Isn't that what so much of life's about? Just seeing things through?

Sugar Earns Herself a Sobriquet

Poor Sugar, minus a couple of reproductive organs, returned home last week after an overnight stay at the Boulevard Veterinary Clinic in Kennilworth, NJ., I kid you not. However, all was not well: her two human geniuses couldn't bring themselves to force her to wear the Elizabethan Collar (a grandiose name for a huge plastic cone secured around the head by surgical gauze). She refused to wear it, we knew she'd never sleep in it, and that was that. Then, she got a little infection at the incision site -- maybe too much tongue and tooth probing. Had to take her back to the clinic for an examination, and as it turned out, some antibiotics (a whole other posting, as I have to lay her on her back on the counter, pry open her jaws, and pour the drops down her throat. Oy, as we say in French).

But when Sugar and I entered the Boulevard Veterinary Clinic for our visit yesterday, I was unprepared for the greetings with which we were met by the staff. Now I'm already used to attention when Sugar's on my arm, or in my arms, aware she's the cutest, prettiest, tiniest little pooch out there (Scott, the trainer assured me that she's aware of it too and trades on it -- a negative behaviorally); and I'm unfazed but flattered by the oohs and aahs she elicits. But the minute we walked into the clinic the receptionist glanced at her and yelled out, "It's The Howler!"

I gazed at Sugar, she looked out the window.

Then a technician in green scrubs ushered us into an examination room. She said, "Hi. Oh, it's The Howler."  I asked her politely why they called her that. She answered that Sugar had been the source of something of a medical mystery. The night she stayed over, after her hysterectomy (hysteria being linguistically related to that procedure for some reason), there were three or four dogs spending the night recovering from various surgeries. A violent howling emanated from the kennels.

Every time the staff passed through, the howling stopped and they naturally assumed that the cries had come from the German Shepard there for toe nail excisions, or from the burly mixed terrier with an enormous jaw, or the other mutt with paws as large as its head -- all at least four times Sugar's size. During the long night, lit only by a dim light bulb, they'd stop, scold the big dogs, stoop and murmur reassuring words to Sugar, knowing how terrified the poor baby must be, lying next to these gigantic aggressive varmints. Sugar nuzzled them sweetly through the bars of her little crate.

By the next afternoon, all the patients were gone, except Sugar, whom the vet wanted to watch for a few hours as she was so small and had been anesthetized. But, to everyone's surprise, the howling continued. Except when someone came to check on her. But no other dogs were there (I guess Sugar was not aware of that.)

So that's Sugar, or rather The Howler.And what's my response to the the sobriquet "The Howler?" You go girl! If you're a 6-lb. female, you'd better know how to howl. So on the whole, a good experience. 

Limiting the Dog Population

Yes, Sugar lovers, today was the day. Sugar's reproductive organs have been removed. Poor baby. Sedated. Wasn't even allowed to have Green Woof, her sleeping toy, with her for surgery.

Had I been an animal breeder, or at least someone who has the least idea about matching purebred with purebred, making sure the bitch is impregnated, going through the whelping process, I might have let her keep her organs. But I don't. And so, Sugar will never know the joys and heartache of sex. And of canine motherhood. But honestly speaking, I think she can live without them. Think about it: the sex is for one minute. She's never met this beau before. It's all wham bam thank you ma'am for her. And motherhood? Well, after giving birth, in great pain, to a number of puppies, she doesn't even know them from Adam after a couple of weeks. And if she weren't altered, she'd have to experience menstruation (why is the "men" in that word?) for many years. Menstruation is the curse, as we used to call it before modern times. Because it is. It's really awful. For what does Sugar need it? For me to make a buck off her back with a couple of puppies to sell?

No, there are too many dogs in shelters as it is, who need homes, who need loving humans to take them home and nurture them. Anyway, there's only one Sugar in the world; she can never be matched. She's the genius of the canine world, growing brighter every day. The people should not get spoiled with too many Poodles around; they'll neglect all the dumber dogs in the shelters, panting with long tongues to be rescued.

Tomorrow I'll pick her up from the vet. Probably groggy from anesthesia. Wearing an "Elizabethan collar" to keep her from biting out her stitches. And with or without female organs, she'll still be our Sugar. I hope. I hope there's no Greek tragedian twist, whereby the protagonist, having been acted upon by gods and humans, is transformed and becomes a monster.

But I will inform you of Sugar's state sans ovaries and uterus as soon as the verdict is in. In the meantime, please pray for her successful recovery.

Sugar Seems Puzzled

Easter's over. Even Passover is over, with its eight long days of Matza eating (indigestible but delicious with butter and a dash of salt; sad confession: I'm still eating it, finishing the last crunchy box with a chaser of fiber). Spring has sprung undeniably and is proceeding posthaste into torrid summer.

Yet, like my protracted Matza-eating, the so-called Arab Spring continues. Sugar and I tune in the news (she loves voices on TV as I leave it on for her when I'm out, but please don't let her in on the secret) and we see yet ANOTHER war, another billionaire tin-pot potentate gunning down his own people. It used to be Tunisia, then Egypt, Bahrain, Yemen, Libya and now Syria. Sugar can't keep track anymore; it's both puzzling and dizzying. I say, "Sugar, pay attention if you want to be an educated pup, a canine conversant with current events." She lies down and yawns. "What's the woman yammering about now?" is the message I'm strongly inferring from her posture.

But I happen to be alone at home at the news hour, with no one but Sugar with whom to discuss things. This puts me at something of an intellectual disadvantage -- or, one could take the opposite point of view, the cheap one, and point out that it puts me at a huge advantage. Sugar can speak, but she needs me to interpret her remarks into English. I'm actually teaching her to speak. I say, "Sugar, speak!" She gazes at me quizzically at first, but then pipes up vociferously. "Aarf! Ruff! Ruff, ruff, growl...RUFF." "OK, that's enough," I tell her. OK is our word to knock it off. Anything I want knocked off. But we NEVER want people knocked off.

So we watch the poor Syrian men, marching defenseless to their random deaths by Syrian and Iranian snipers and even tanks, and we wonder: Why are we only helping Libyan citizens? Their thugocracy isn't nearly as vicious as the Syrian one. And I remark, "Sugar, you understand all this better than most of U.S. officialdom. You, Sugar, should be Secretary of State."

Sugar's no dope, though. She whines and puts her paws over her eyes. I don't get it. "What's wrong, Sugar?" I demand. "You Poodles are the geniuses of the canine world. You think you can't do better than the dummies of the human world?"

Sugar moans. Oh, I see; I hadn't thought of that before. It's not that Sugar doesn't know she's smart. She knows she can negotiate her way out of any situation in our household. It's not her brains holding her back. It's cultural differences. "Don't say that, Sugar!" I protest. "We're all equal. Why, PETA wants to pass a law making fish life akin to human life. Believe me, you will find your supporters. Don't you have the fire in the belly to be truly groundbreaking?"

Sugar squirms and crawls under the ottoman. A clue! Ottoman! Oh, now I perceive the problem. Vapid me. The trouble spots of the world, the places where Sugar would be called upon to intervene, are all in Muslim countries. Here Sugar interrupts me with a yelp. It had slipped my mind that according to Islam, dogs are considered unclean (but Poodles?) and are not kept as pets. This is true, though it doesn't sound PC to say so. But let's put the shoe on the other foot: doesn't that make Islam Doggist? Sugar -- oh and she's a white Jewish Poodle to boot -- would get kicked out (literally) by any Muslim country the State Department might send her to. And forget about China, where she COULD serve, but probably as an entree.

Well, this is a loss to the world. Because while our Administration with all its geniuses cannot seem to find a way to articulate a coherent policy, much less enact it; and while civilians are being killed in their thousands in these far-flung places; and practicing Christians are being decimated in both Muslim countries and China, Hubby and I haven't had one quarrel since Sugar's been on the scene here on Lawrence Ave.

We Americans seem to have lost the ability to think outside the box, and certainly the ability to speak up. By the way, where have all the anti-war protesters gone? The Cindy Sheehans and Michael Moores. Now that we're in three wars instead of only two, it's OK? Was it the roundness of the number of wars they objected to? But never mind them. As this is an activist puppy blog, I hereby announce Sugar's ability (if not willingness) to replace Hillary Clinton. Naturally she would need me as her spokesperson, but I assure you I would never mis-translate her. I urge you to get up off your haunches, humans and canines alike, and write to your nearest public official, or the Department of State, and demand the immediate appointment of Sugar the Toy Poodle as our muzzle to the rest of the world. She couldn't do any worse, could she?

In the Nature of All Living Things

To live, and to die.

My aged father-in-law passed away yesterday. Last year, my beloved old father succumbed. In their last hours they waged a mighty struggle against the angel of death. One wonders about that terrible and wonderful will to live, at all costs. The hopeless fight at the end, in view of the other side. We shudder to contemplate it.

One hopes to die in one's sleep, or of a quick and mortal heart attack. Even a fast-moving bus! But maybe that final struggle is the ultimate experience of life. It's the very end, the portal out as birth was the portal in. I don't want to wax too philosophic in a blog about a puppy, but in thinking about life and death, I also begin to think about Sugar's life and eventual death. A dog can live to be twelve, or fourteen, or even sometimes twenty, though I wouldn't want to be that dog.

But Sugar's just so young, happy and blissfully unaware of death. Her very existence in the state of nature and extremely involved in the world of human affairs (at least mine), lend her an air of enchantment. She straddles worlds, participates in our life, has no worries about daily survival and no fears that there will ever be an end to the filling of her food bowl. A dog's life -- a least a toy Poodle's. How divine.

And when the grim reaper comes for Sugar, she will accept it with composure, just as she accepts all of life with composure (except for squirrels and the mailman). She'll be old. She'll lie down and sigh. There will be no question of acceptance. It will just be. She will let it be.

But how will I feel? Only humans agonize over the unavoidable and the inevitable. Because we have the awareness to cherish life, not just live it. It's the greatest gift. God said, "Choose life!" And we try, we try to the very last spasm of breath.

I believe strongly in an afterlife. I know there are dear ones waiting for me. The ancient Egyptians used to embalm their dogs and cats and take them along to the next world. I think that would be asking a lot of a modern dog. I shall not ask that of Sugar, should she outlive me. But honestly, I'm growing to love her at an alarming rate and don't know how I will make do without her on the other side. Not that she does anything for me besides chew my slippers and get sick on the dining room carpet. Nevertheless, we begin to bond strongly with our pets as we do with our human loved ones. A dog in one's life, I'm learning, is an added bonus of life, a rock-hard facet that glitters with always-requited love.

A Daffodil Blooms Outside the French Door

It must be the season of renewal. It must be Passover and Easter time. It's Sugar's first springtime. And in a way, that makes it mine. For truly, when a young thing under one's tutelage experiences a first spring, it must also be one's own rebirth.

Now Sugar, of course, doesn't know it's springtime. She really doesn't know much at all. She knows when she's hungry, she knows when she's tired. She knows when there's a treat in the offing. She likes a belly rub. She's a pup, an ignorant animal. She can't read poetry about the seasons. She can't say, "Halleluyah, it's raining sunshine today!" Yet, there's something different about her now.

We spend more time out of doors. She gets lost in the green shoots of new pachysandra, sniffing for low life forms, such as ants (tasty, squirmy, crunchy). When we sit on the front steps and the little girl in a pink sweater from up the block trips past, Sugar barks ferociously. When two fat men in track suits and hoods scurry along the sidewalk, she's mute. Some watch dog.

But for me, there's springtime in all of Sugar's antics because it's our first green season together, as a couple, Canine and Human. I teach her, she resists. (O children o' mine, weren't you the same?) I open her mouth and inspect her teeth and gums (all young, pink, white, healthy) and she lets me, because she knows that despite her brattiness, I will always look after her. So sometimes, just to make a point, I pry open her black lips and inspect inside. She rolls her eyes backward, as if to say, "This is the price I must pay for being taken care of by the one Human who on occasion feeds me pate de foie gras and thinks I'm really the cat's pyjamas. Small price to pay."

A lucky Canine. A happy Human. A lovely season. The season of our redemption. God bless such a beautiful world as ours.

The Sweet Spot

When you hit it, you know it.

And so it is between puppy and human. That place of equilibrium, the point at which we intuitively understand that we accept one another and abandon qualms about living together forever. Much like a good marriage, the nagging, secret, interior questioning is pacified by a soft, durable reality. This relationship works, and yet it will require constant cultivation to keep it so, as any good relationship does.

The puppy gazes at you with her chocolate eyes in a way that suggests she knows exactly what you are talking about. You've both arrived at the sweet spot. We can count them up on one or two hands, the sweet spots we've experienced in life. A milestone, a lovely affirmation that the natural world is good, and that the Eternal One above shines down and smiles at you sometimes. I would crack open a bottle of pink champagne and toast Sugar, but I'd have to drink it alone. So I'll just have a glass of that nice Chalk Hill Chardonnay I opened last night, and give Sugar a lick of pate de foie gras off my finger. And we'll say a blessing that we've found each other and are bound together in friendship, till death do us part.

A Quickie

But this is not about sex. It's about love. Dog on Master, Master on Dog, love.

I've admitted previously that I'm not a born Animalist, as many are. There are people who prefer animals to other people and feel more comfortable in the company of the little beasts than the big ones (Humans). I'm not one of those people. Come to think of it, I fit into neither category; as a writer, I tend to be a hermit first and foremost. Though I'd rather be with my husband, kids and grandchildren than be alone -- most of the time. But to be a Poodle owner, you need to know that Poodles, above and beyond every other breed, need, insist on, live for the intimate presence of their Human. I actually knew this before acquiring Sugar, but frankly, I was more focused on her brains and appearance and small size (my needs) rather than her inbred urge to be constantly by my side -- at least within smelling distance, if not actually on the lap.

So I've learned a great deal during the past three months of Sugar's presence in my face, er, household. Here's the long and short of it: I was timid with her, afraid I wouldn't REALLY love her, afraid that therefore she wouldn't truly love me. If I was too strict and enforced rules, I seemed to be an ogre. She only weighs five pounds, after all. So Sugar, brainy canine, pounced on my insecurity and grew into a spoiled brat. All documented in a previous post. The trained professional was summoned who confirmed the diagnosis: Sugar=bratty and out of control puppy. Time for tough love. Well, you know how we Humans are. If we get a diagnosis from a specialist, we believe it and proceed to implement the necessary remedy. Which I did, though I won't put you through the specifics of treats withheld and why. Suffice it to say that this smart puppy needed, for her own good, to be TAUGHT manners. And perhaps the cliche holds: believe me, this hurts me more than it hurts you. Not totally sure about that. Sugar doesn't cotton to discipline. But she's coming round.

What's my point? I think it's this. There are others in our household who find Sugar so adorable, which is undeniably and objectively true, that they won't help in disciplining her. Yet it's said that consistency is vital. I don't want to be the only bad guy. But it's me or nobody. With expert diagnosis in hand, I went for it. It had to be me, or Sugar would become a Paris Hilton-type dog. (I refer to both Human and animal in the comparison.) This could not happen, or our relationship would not last. Don't forget, soft-hearted, starry-eyed reader, that pets, unlike children, can be got rid of. We couldn't let it come to that or even approach it. God forbid!

So I went to work and I have a good progress report for you. Though we're not perfect yet in the behavior department, we've learned a great deal. Sugar has learned that I'm the boss of her. Yes, I repeat for my own ears even, I'm the boss of Sugar. Sugar is learning to like that, I think. Maybe not, but tough. She can't talk to tell her point of view anyway, but she kisses me even more than before (could be Stockholm Syndrome, who knows?). And I? Well, what can I say? I'm tough, I'm thorough, I'm like the FBI. I feel myself to be in charge. Aware of her slapdash efforts to please me (I can intuit the drowsy question in her mind when she's napping on her bed and I say, "Come, Sugar," and she thinks, "What the hell does she want from me now?"), and how bothersome it must be for her, my heart emits a rush of compassion. But just for a moment. Then I pounce on the lead attached to her collar and glower, hoping not to have to repeat myself. Tough love.

Now that I know what I'm doing I love her more. And she loves me more. Sometimes the growth of lasting love is hard. Ask your children, ask your parents. You will understand what I mean. And this post didn't turn out to be a quickie as advertized. But explaining the architecture of love is bound to be long-winded.

Sent Back to Remedial Class

Well, we achieved it. Hubby and I made it to the class of spoilers, nurturers of spoiled brats. And Sugar, genius pup that she is, encouraged us all the way. We created a four-pound monster. When people came to the house, she raced through every room, uncatchable, out of control. Is that a polite greeting? Is that the way the well-behaved and adjusted pooch behaves? Hardly. And I so had my heart set on a well-mannered canine. Not only for the braggadocio aspect, but for her own safely and sense of well-being.

But lately, in the last week or so, when I called her, she literally gave me the cold shoulder, turned tail flippantly and ran in the other direction. Often with a morsel of Pup-Peroni ten inches from her teeth. "Bedtime, Sugar, let's go upstairs, which you love."  Run run run in mad circles and catch me if you can; this her response to my polite invitation. This would obviously not do. Trainer Scott would have to be called back into action.

Yesterday, upon greeting Scott, Sugar the new egomaniac (she has no idea she's four pounds and can be squashed like a bug), streaked about the house. "Ah," Scott said, "I see. She's out of control." I felt like tucking my tail beneath my legs. My smart, beautiful, petite, delightful puppy out of control! But not to fear, and not to feel humiliated, Scott was here, with all his canine/human wisdom. He says it's almost never the fault of the dog; it's always the Human. And usually it's because the Human is afraid that if strict, the dog won't love her anymore; or worse, the dog will think the Human doesn't love HER anymore.

It was time for Tough Love.

Scott's diagnosis was no doubt correct. But what was the remedy? When he put Sugar through her paces -- all the commands she knows by heart backwards and forwards -- she did them all for him, in one go. She didn't wait for orders. Then she jumped up on him for the treat. I was mortified, as you can imagine. Only two weeks ago he'd been suggesting Sugar be taken for advanced agility training. Now she was a little savage, accountable to no one. But Scott has seen much in the canine world as a trainer, and he had the answer (well, we'll see about that in a week or two). He cut off the handle of her red outdoor leash so she can wear it all the time. Meaning that if she refuses to come, I can step on the end of the leash and make her. Tough love, little one. One of us needs to be boss, and as with a child, it can't be you.

So we've regressed to doing only come and sit. All the rest of the marvels of Sugar's agility and obedience rest waiting in the future, when she's a "mentsch" again. Now, if she doesn't come, I can give her a gentle yank (yes, it hurts me more than it hurts her). I've had to put the snack fanny pack back on because we're at square one again. And that doesn't feel good to me; yes me, I'm a person too! I can't crow yet about how much progress we've made, as Sugar is not completely reconciled to the new regimen. But I can say that Sugar has a creative mind, and has learned a few lessons I could live without (oh why can't she be a dummy?):

Sugar has learned to pick up the slack of the dangling leash by carrying the whole thing in her mouth around the house, so it's really tricky for me to step on or even catch that leash. Plus, she's perfected a downtrodden visage. She lies in her downstairs fleece bed and gazes at me with sad, disappointed, defeated eyes. As if to say, I had such high hopes for you, but now I know you don't really love me.

Naively, I thought I was buying a pet, a living being who would trot to me whenever I wanted, who would be endlessly loyal and obedient. Who knew I was really about to raise a third child? They say it will be worth the effort (don't they always say that?), and damn it, I do love her more and more. She knows it too, and exploits it to perfection.

Tiger Blood

It's Friday afternoon, the last one of a snowy March. The sun is fading in the pale sky and the Sabbath Bride is approaching, clothed magnificently in white. This is the beginning of the day of rest, that utterly radical concept. A night and day when everything stops, and even animals rest. A day of quiet, pleasure, and contemplation, if that is your bent. Could any concept be more pertinent today, in our age of frantic activity and frenzied information? If you can even call it information.

What a blessing to be rid of Charlie Sheen and the "goddesses" for 24 hours. Charlie Sheen and his tiger blood. Sugar and I feel so sorry for him. What a mind to live in: there's no rest, no succor, no One to hold you for awhile. That's what the Sabbath is for: rest, re-creation, renewal, relaxation, getting rid of tiger blood for a bit and giving yourself a transfusion of Sugar blood. Sugar blood? What's that?

Sugar blood is living calmly in the moment (sort of like meditating). Sugar doesn't need to meditate or do yoga, she doesn't go to ashrams or retreats. She just does what she's supposed to do each minute. Her time is spent eating, sleeping, playing with toys and people, getting tummy rubs, curling up in her fleece bed and pondering we do not know what. And, of course, offering copious kisses. Sometimes she barks at strangers at the door because life isn't perfect, and danger lurks. Her life is uncomplicated by existential questions and issues of the zeitgeist. She's a love dog, but not a sexy beast. She's fastened in the here and now (granted, she's still a puppy and thus retains her innocence).

But humans do not and cannot live in the here and now very often. And the here and now today tends to be filled with degrading and depressing images of people doing destructive distorted things, and making lots of noise and garnering a great deal of publicity doing them. We want, we need, to shut them off sometimes.

Perhaps it was always thus, but on a different scale. And that's why Judaism, why God, in fact, mandated the idea of a Sabbath, a sabbatical from crazy life. This we no longer take seriously. It's so archaic. We don't need a break, we can't afford it. But perhaps we ignore it at our own peril. I don't know the answer. I only know that for the first time in history, some three or four thousand years ago, people were told they musn't work for one day a week. And it was hard to do but really good.

May that intelligent Spirit of blessing continue to shine down on us in our day of doubt and cynicism. And Sugar says arf to that.

What's the Matter with Humans?

I put my questions about war to Sugar. She was still licking gravy off her lower lip whiskers (I know, disgusting to let a French Poodle grow whiskers, but she's getting groomed day after tomorrow).

"We seem so confused, Sugar, about this war, or non-war, in Libya. No one knows what's going on. You dogs know a thing or two about fighting," I averred to a four-pound ball of fluff.

Sugar licked her chops and stared at me thoughtfully. I realized then and there that I would get nowhere without a little dessert. Chopped her up a few bits of avocado, her favorite exotic delicacy.

Then she furrowed her brow, lifted her ears attentively, and stared me straight in the eye. Well, friends, if there's such a thing as meta-verbal communication, she let me have it straight up.

"What's wrong with you Humans? You are losing your instinct for self-preservation, and that's bad for us canines. We need you for protection, just as you need us for protection." I looked at the mini-weakling and rolled my eyes. But she didn't stop there. She was worked up. A low growl escaped her throat.

"When some stranger comes to the door, or near a window, I bark, don't I? Why? Use your great big noodle. Because I don't know whether it's a friend or foe, and in the art of survival, you can't take chances. You look, you sniff intensely, you know. Friend? Welcome. Foe? I'm gonna bite your damn head off if I can. If you have any intention whatsoever of harming me, my Humans, my Humans' property, you'd better be prepared for a fight. But first, silly Humans, you must determine whether the trespasser is friend or foe. Then be ready to protect your own self-interest. That's survival. Now I, as your official dog, think that my establishment is well worth protecting and not only that; but also worth developing to its most prosperous and happiest state, [Sugar has read the Founding Father with me, we're now on the new Ron Chernow bio of George Washington and Sugar recommends it highly as a great read.] Anyone who wants to deny you that is a foe. Go get 'im. But something like a squirrel down from a tree? [She was probably alluding to Ghadafi, which was my original question to her.] Don't inflame your throat muscles barking at him, and save your chompers for the big rat out there somewhere. That squirrel is disgusting, being a form of rodent, but you could make a meal of him, and he can't really make a meal of you. He's just a nut chomper."

I think Sugar's onto something. We humans have diverged so far from our animal natures, that we can no longer attend to our own self-interest without wearing a hair shirt. The worst part is that some people blithely aver that that's a good thing, it's progress. They might have sung a different tune had they been confronted by Hitler, Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot or the Mad Mullahs of today, but these lucky folks live in the enlightened nations and don't have to worry about their big mouths and ideas landing them in a dungeon. or worse.

Sugar knows better. She snorts at them. She's the child of nature and also shares a sort of soul with us. She also avoided college where so many dumb ideas are now drummed into the heads of innocent youth. And though she's ridiculously domesticated, she hasn't forgotten her essential truths -- the ones concerning self-preservation and the right to the self-interested pursuit happiness, and God help anyone who wants to abolish it. She pursues it night and day and doesn't feel the slightest pang of guilt. Ah, guilt. But that's another story, for another time.

War, What's It Good For?

That's the slogan Sugar shouted to me as we watched the news last evening. Bombs exploding on dictators' palaces (or was that a multi-story tent?); unknowable non-uniformed desert rebels or civilians shooting automatic weapons in the air when they're supposedly short of ammunition; shrieking fighter planes coming from who knows where, going to who knows where? As I gaped at it all, wooden spoon in hand, forgetting about Sugar's dinner, I distinctly heard her declaim: "War, what's it good for?" But to be perfectly truthful it might have been something like, "ARF, woof  woof WOOF, ARF!"

Now Sugar, I know, doesn't mean to denigrate war. She knows it has its uses, it's in her DNA. It has its uses, and sometimes it's unavoidable. We just like to know what we're actually fighting about, you know, like who are the parties to the conflict and which side are they on. One presumes there are two sides, or there wouldn't be a conflict, right? So who's on who's side? Is the Arab League on our side? No. But they were yesterday. Is France on our side? Yes, they initiated our side of the conflict but they only have six planes. Is Norway on our side? Yes, they were en route to Tripoli in their own U.S. made planes, but when they got to northern Africa they didn't know who was in charge, whom to ask for instructions, so they flew back home. You get the picture: there's no picture here. For all we know we're fighting on behalf of fanatics who want to kill us. Perhaps the policy is to get them all into power over there lickety-split so they can get back to their work on us. Just get it over with. Because we don't really know who they are. I don't know. You don't know. Sugar doesn't know. The president doesn't seem to know. Hillary doesn't know. General Mullen doesn't know. Ghadafi doesn't know. No wonder they call it the fog of war. Also, who are we protecting? Are they friends? If not, why not let their friends protect them? There's at least supposed to be logic to war, or else we will repeat WW I over and over. But in this instance, who lied and who died? Or do they all lie? Where is our Washington, our Lincoln, our Churchill of today to guide us through the moral morass?

So, after spooning the minced chicken breast and quinoa into Sugar's bowl, I thought I'd give her a moment to inhale the food and then digest; then get her opinion, because -- altogether now -- French Poodles (despite being French) are the geniuses of the canine kingdom.

Oh, she answered me alright. However, it will take me a little time to translate her pithy comments for you, drawn from the wisdom of the canine kingdom, man's alter ego. Don't miss tomorrow's post.

Japanese Dogs and Toy French Poodles

Are they different because they're Japanese? Have they inherited biologically a greater sense of duty and heroism from their general culture? Or are they representative of all dogs? We know canines to be man's best friend, but we didn't know they could extend their loyalty and devotion to each other.

Six or seven million YouTube viewers saw the clip of a wet, bedraggled parti-colored hound in a muddy northern village washed away in the tsunami, refusing to abandon a friend -- an injured spotted dog, lying beside a broken drain pipe. The hound goes so far as to put his paw over the face of his friend when a human tries to lure him away with the scent of food. Can animals really be this noble? I hardly know a person this noble in my town, and there's nothing wrong with my town, as far as I know. But we haven't been tested this way. Perhaps the problem is complacency born of ease. Maybe nobility surfaces only at times of hardship and trial.

Well, thank God Sugar is not in Japan, and neither am I. And believe me, I do not make light of the awesome tragedy unfolding there, growing worse as the days progress and our information increases. I sent money to the Red Cross today, thinking that of all organizations, the likeliest to get the money quickly and efficiently into the hands of the populace would be the IRC.

But my mind kept wandering nevertheless. What if disaster should strike us here in New Jersey? What if I were incapacitated, and had only Sugar at hand to help me? How prepare for that? Should I try to teach Sugar to dial 911? Toy Poodles, as I don't have to reiterate -- but will -- are the geniuses of the canine kingdom. I would bet a pretty penny I could teach her to use the phone. But what would she say? Would an arf be enough to alert the operator to send the Rescue Squad to my house? And all things considered, what else could I train a five pound squirt to do? I'm light at 110, but can I seriously expect this pooch, the size of a dinner bag, to drag me to safety in case of a fire or sudden heart attack? Could she get me out the door?

Maybe I should have gotten a full-sized Poodle, one who can actually climb the stairs herself. But it's too late for that now. No, I'm afraid that practical aid from Sugar in an emergency is not one of those things about her of which I can boast. Yes, even in this besotted blog, sometimes we must admit failure. A woof or two, copious tears, much licking about the face and ears, and that's about all I'd get in the way of help. Better than nothing; I'd probably have to worry about getting her out of the house. But there you have it: no use trying to prepare over-much for future calamity. I'm enjoying Sugar now, and she's enjoying me (and my Franco-Jewish cooking); we're both happier for being together. That's enough, and more. We bid all our readers the luxury of being complacent, of living and loving in the moment, and letting the future look after itself.

Sugar is Enervated

Energy is one of the themes of the past week. That and violence. The energy we speak of is nature's energy to destroy unintentionally, as in Japan; and humans' energy to destroy with lust, as in Itamar.

We can't blame nature. It does what it must. And we don't want to enter the field of international politics in a blog pertaining to French Poodles. But we must say that though the destruction in Japan is far greater, the destruction in Itamar is far scarier. Think of plunging a knife into the heart of a sleeping three-month-old baby; think of then slashing her throat. Or that of a three-year-old toddler. Seriously, try to imagine doing that. I'm looking at Sugar lying at my feet, trying to imagine piercing her furry little body with a knife, and I recoil in utter disbelief that it can be done, and she's just a dog. No, those are not political acts and there is no excuse under the sun for them. None. That the victims were Jews living where they had no "right" to live? That they should have known better? That's twaddle. There are political ways to remove them, as from Gaza, which is where this family originally lived. They were human beings slaughtered savagely by monsters raised to hate; this is the energy of hatred, greater even than the energy of anger. There are no "buts." This is purest evil. That is all we will say.

Sugar, thank God, belongs to nature and not to humankind. She's no more capable of hate than an earthquake, though she is no stranger to destruction, to wit, the now-uneven fringe on my Pierre Deux slipper chair beside my desk. But our hearts aren't into blogging today. It's too soon after too many were killed, and so many others left homeless, orphaned and bereaved. Fortunately for Sugar, she has no sense of humor, and therefore will not turn to it for solace, and be wholly disappointed. She is affected only as my absorbent mirror. If I am sad, then Sugar stops racing about the house. If I have no energy, she has no energy. She lies curled on my Bennington College canvas tote bag with her bully stick and "road kill" toy, and snoozes and waits. She will doze until her Human emerges from the doldrums, then she will rise with her. This is the task given her by nature and breeding: companionship. Are there many more noble callings in life than that?

Discipline Begets Trust Begets Intimacy

I'm merely in the midst of formulating this equation, and it does pertain to a puppy so I can't claim that it's universally applicable in life, but let's try to work it out together.

Here we stand, Sugar and I, eyeball to eyeball, though sometimes at a slight remove, more or less as we were yesterday, when we started obedience training, treatless. It would be wonderful to report that Sugar has received absolutely no Pup-peroni for a sit or a down, but that would be false. However, she's only had a few morsels of that delectable jerky. For the truly crucial command, "Come, Sugar," she's had nothing but the hairy eyeball.

This business made me queasy at first. Why would she come without a treat? She knows she'll be fed at the next mealtime anyway. But I was fearful of failure, for both of us. The ramifications of failure would be important. And aside from the asinine ("I can't even get a dog to listen to me"), they could be serious. I could never trust her. She could never trust that my word was law and that therefore she was protected from the outside world because with her cooperation I would always be able to intercede on her behalf. Discipline seems to be the prerequisite for trust between pup and her Human.

So we drilled it. Half a day yesterday with Sugar looking around for hot dog morsels. An hour last night. Several attempts this morning. Several more after lunch when her thinking cap was on but also when she geared up into protein-fueled running mode. Here's the direct report from our last session:

I kneel down a few paces from Sugar. Sugar looks up at me. She's lying down, chewing a cardboard box top, a favorite afternoon pastime. Her look says, "What do you want now? Can't you see I'm busy?"

"Come, Sugar," I say. I don't even try to sound chipper anymore. She knows this is business, not play. I then remember to make the "come" motion with my hand, just because you're supposed to, not because she doesn't know already what come means.

Sugar lets the box dangle from her jaw, a bit of brown paper stuck to her lower whiskers. I don't repeat the word. I don't repeat the gesture, but I do rap the floor with my knuckles, just to impress. A bird flew in the sky, or was it a plane, or a squirrel climbing the tree. Sugar's head followed the clues, and when silence resumed, there was nothing to look at but me. She looked at me, blinked. I sat immobile, three feet away. It would have been a cinch for her to lift her tush and walk over. But no. She yawned. So wide I could see where her tongue is attached at the root. Then looked at me. Suddenly, the not-unexpected fake itch. Must have been a really unquenchable fake itch. I just looked at her, and in my look there were plenty of words: Get over here already, my knees are starting to ache, this is for your own good, I'm not giving up, so you better, and fast, or else I don't know, but please do it so we can be a good couple. Sugar (Poodles are the geniuses and clairvoyants of the canine world) caught the drift, or saw something different in my eyes. She raised her haunches, stretched her front legs long and low, licked her chops, looked me over, then took four tiny steps towards me.

Did she get a reward? You bet she did. She got a fervent kiss on the head, much hair-mussing, and cries of "good baby!" We had passed the test together. We need to repeat it many times for surety, but we both know a threshold was crossed. We had discipline, and that created the mutual bond of trust.

So where does intimacy enter the equation? Well, when I know that I can trust my dog, and my dog knows she can trust me, we become a special team. We know one another on a deeper level. We feel better about each other and life. We are riding the earth together in tandem, a team. Our structure is our intimacy and our intimacy is security.

Thousands of years ago, out of the mists of time, dogs and only dogs, rose to walk with men. Why? No one knows. But hail to the Creator for the beauty of his design.

When I say "Come, Sugar," It Means...

Nothing, really, not yet. What is One's Word worth? Is one a serious person or is one timid, afraid of disapprobation, even from a dog. This is a question that can dog life (no pun intended) throughout, but particularly when raising a tiny puppy. The little canine sniffs out the slightest wavering, and poof! it's over. You lost the battle of wills to a four-pound weakling, a being who has to worry every moment about being stepped on, literally. Puppy becomes boss. Puppy never needs to come again. Unless she's in the mood. Maybe for a treat she'll push herself. But for nothing? No, she'll make a little show of it, then contract the fake itch.

Dogs are insanely logical. Words must be followed by actions. There has to be follow-through, or there's no obedience. Kind of reminds me of my kids when they were babies. Kids don't just raise themselves. If you want them to come when called, every time, and not get run over by a speeding car, they have to know you mean business.

But puppies, despite similarities, are not children, and they don't speak or understand English. If they get up to ten words, they're geniuses. They have a different form of communication entirely, and the dog's Human must learn their language.

Well, as is normal, Sugar and I have come to rely on the snack for obedience training. Scott the dog trainer showed me how to attach the meat bag to my belt, and this is a powerful draw for Sugar. "Come" snack. "Sit" snack. "Down" snack. You get the picture. But now, Scott tells me, it's time to wean Sugar from the bag and all the treats. Yes, all. She must come, sit, down, stay, down, sit, come, stay, down, etc., all in one go -- treatless. And you only give the command ONCE. Yesterday I asked him, "Do you think she heard me? Maybe she missed the cue."

"Oh, she heard you alright," he said. Dogs have superb hearing. So what do I do now?

This much I know: dogs are immune to pleading, cajoling and all tricks of the tongue. They understand bribery, but that's no longer an option in our power struggle. That leaves Sugar and me face to face, eyeball to eyeball. Her will against mine. Who will win? Well, I must. I mean I just must. As a proper pet owner I MUST win, because her life could depend on it. So I can't let her be a spoiled brat. Who knew I'd have to go through this again?

Take bedtime. Yes, take it, Sugar chimes in. She has no use for it at all. This is when we go upstairs and prepare for lights-out. This is precisely when Sugar finds a stray peanut under the couch. Or when she decides to race through the house. "Sugar, come!" I say. Sugar performs another lap through the living and dining rooms. She's so fast, she's like a squirrel, her curly ears flying backwards, her back undulating. Trying to catch her is akin to deliberately giving yourself a heart attack: I don't think it's possible.

So last night, after my stern lecture from Scott the dog trainer, I got serious. This is about my word. So let's get it right. Final urination: check. Favorite toys: check. Snack earlier in the evening: check. Kitchen dark and quiet: check.

"Come, Sugar," I said quietly, sitting on the bottom step (Sugar's too small to mount the stairs herself, which makes her recalcitrance all the more absurd). Sugar glanced at me, surveyed the dark room, nosed the floor, licked up a crumb from dinner under the table, gazed my way again, sat down, eyed me, scratched her ear with a back leg.

I sat, said nothing. Just eyed her back. The word "come" was practically shooting off my tongue, but I kept my lips closed. Sugar abandoned the shelter of the kitchen table, inched towards me with her back legs, leaving her front legs on the floor, as if being dragged. I was immovable, a Sphinx. It was over. For one night.

We'll see what happens tonight. If my experience with little ones is any guide, it won't go well tonight. But we're moving in the direction of Adult Human Primacy in the relationship.

Sugar Needs a Job

Are you hiring, dear reader? Do you know anyone who's hiring? Will you put in a good word for Sugar? Here are her qualifications: She's very small and can worm her way into tight spots (holes in basements, for example); her nose is flawless (she can smell a sardine at ten paces, or a rat or raccoon trapped under your eaves); she's swift as wind (eludes my grasp at bedtime so fast that we now call her La Loca) and could return tools quickly, albeit in a damp state. The more I write about her qualifications the more I feel Sugar would be at home in a carpentry or at the side of a handyman. Treats required, but no lunch hour needed. Two seconds will do. She works cheap -- for food and the occasional pat on the head, if you can catch her.

I suppose that what I'm saying (apart from soliciting a job for Sugar) is that all sentient beings need to work and be rewarded. I don't consider that digging up the kitchen garden before breakfast and hoarding the wood chips in her bed constitute work, or a job. But digging is something that dogs do, and do well. However, this is a counter-intuitive occupation for a house pet. If only I could get her to plant things instead of rooting them up. But then, animals do not make order. They don't make the kind of order that people need to sustain a life with house pets. Which makes having house pets a luxury. And it is a luxury. Perhaps that's why the Egyptian princes and princesses so loved their cats: the cats were a symbol of abundance (they also took care of the mice).

Pets are always underfoot. It's annoying. They constantly wheedle you for affection. Unless, that is, you're in the mood for a little furry cuddle, in which case they run away and hide under the couch where you can't reach them. Such is the nature of fancy house pets. Such is the nature of pure bred Poodles. Maybe mutts are less standoffish, but I'll not give that a try till either Sugar or I meet the Grim Reaper, whoever goes first. If you're wondering why, then, I have a Sugar, you're right to wonder. I wonder myself.

I think that looking after Sugar is part of my job as an affluent Human. She's a dog, she exists, five million dogs a year are destroyed in this country, so there you have it. One dog is safe in our house. Why the fancy shmancy dog, you ask? Good question. Well, she's smart. Humans often like a challenge. She challenges me with her slight willfulness, her independence of spirit. I like that in animals and people. I like the little pads of her paws, like to massage them when she lets me. Those little pads make me aware of differences between humans and quadripeds, the vulnerability of their little feet. We are all so vulnerable in so many ways.

But let's stop being sentimental for a moment. Each of us needs a reason to get up in the morning (besides breakfast), and Sugar's no different. She doesn't get up because she knows she'll get a paw massage or leftover sweet potato fries. She needs to work, to contribute something. She's too smart to loll around. Warning to all potential puppy purchasers: think about getting a dumb dog. Therefore, if you, our readers, do not come up with appropriate employment for a white toy Poodle pup, I might have to eventually take the step of turning her into a working dog. Agility training perhaps, for shows. Or training as a therapy dog, which I mention in every post, but hope to be talked out of because Sugar's no angel of mercy. So think carpenter's apprentice, and feel free to write in with suggestions.

What Does Sugar Think About?

It's very hard to know. As a nouvelle Animaliste I'm at a particular loss to know what a French Poodle (now of the Jewish persuasion) thinks about. Does she wonder about her Creator? Does she fret over her shortcomings? Sometimes I see her stare off into space. Only for a moment though. Then a dust mote catches her eye and she jumps for it. Sometimes I suppose she just feels happy, for no identifiable reason, and she runs round in little circles. Why can't I be like that? At least a little bit.


Sugar's life is lovely and simple. All her needs are met. If a need isn't met, she knows how to ask for it. She nudges me toward the kitchen counter if it's five minutes past five. If she has an accident, she feels free about it, aware that I know it was my fault for not getting her to her proper elimination station at the right time. She's never punished or made to feel guilty. What would be the use of trying to make her feel guilty? Dogs are incapable of guilt. They only know love/approval vs. fear. And we never want her to fear us. But we do insist on respect. Sorta.

Luckily, Sugar's the genius of the canine world, as has been often stated, and she knows how to pretend to respect her Humans. She's so smart, that as I write these words, I realize she took advantage of my distraction and has been off to the antique hall table to chew on its claw's feet. Did I yell "Bad Sugar?" Of course not. I'm an enlightened Animalist. I hollered "EHH," in a terrifying voice. We never tell animals they are bad. I learned that from books. But the books also inform us that dogs don't understand English. So what's the difference between "Bad girl" and "EHH?" Nothing.

As with the raising of children, it's not what you say so much as how you say it. The expression of love, the expression of firmness -- both of these, let us hope, result in a good little animal. A friend for life.

P.S. While I was busy playing at the keyboard, Sugar gummed one of my favorite clogs, left stupidly under my desk. Fair game. I kept my cool though. Replaced it with a chew toy, in which she has absolutely no interest. Who can blame her? A cool leather shoe versus a chew toy? Come on...

Poodle, the Uncoolest Dog of the Post Modern Era

I revel in that. Nothing earns my disdain so much as a movement in art and literature that defines itself in terms of what it is not. It's not modern? So what is it? It's pure mimetic navel-gazing, nothing more. It's brought ruin to literature, and if I have to read one more novel about a poor minority woman who gets raped and ripped off by the government I won't even be able to puke. All puked out. There's nothing to read anymore.

I want to stress this: THERE'S NOTHING TO READ ANYMORE.

I'm begging anyone in the book business, please, please, bring back complimentary books about white men. It would just be so refreshing. We can't take it anymore.

It reminds me of hideous dogs: so "in." The New Zealand something or other that took Best in Show at the New York Dog Show a couple of weeks ago looked like a giant rodent with a beard, and legs of a greyhound. A tiny head on a massive grey snaggly-haired body. Ecchh. What's happened to taste these days? Taste, proportion, tone. Anyone? I'm seriously seeking an answer to the question.

The taste mavens of today seem to be stuck on ugly. Only the ugly can be beautiful. Because the beautiful had it too good for too long. And now we need to celebrate ugly. OK. I was with the program for a year or two. But that's enough. We can't stomach ugly, in animals, literature, art, forever. It's sad that ugly has to exist. And it does. And sometimes it can be noble, and sometimes it wakens us to our higher humanity. But enough is enough. I'm cultivating beauty. Yes, always a maverick, a dissident, a swimmer against the stream, I desire to behold beauty again. Isn't it enough that we all face death? What's uglier than that? Only those who refuse to recognize death in their near or distant future can continue to celebrate ugliness forever. Or are they simply masochists who insist we affirm them in their nihilism?

Well, that's why I got myself a white toy Poodle. Perfect conformation. Like a sculpture of a Greek god. Every line in perfect order. A coat of vanilla curls so thick you can hardly run your fingers through it. Almond-shaped eyes warm and hard at the same time. A sculpted muzzle that resolves itself in a fine black nose. The measure of the length of the back equal to the height of the legs. Symmetry, proportion. A throw-back to the Renaissance. A keen intelligence. A dog you don't have to feel sorry for. A dog who is not sloppy, but rather dainty. A beautiful little specimen of nature.

Pure bred Poodles for five centuries have been cultivated for two purposes: to be man's best and cleverest friend (and who really wants a dumb slob for a constant companion?), and to delight our days with the beauty of their persons and their personalities.

So yes, Poodles are outre these days. But ah, so many are missing so much. A Poodle is a work of art conceived and perfected by Nature and Man together. Why not enjoy?

To Sugar I say: L'chayim! Long life as you grow in inner and outer beauty. And to hell with Post Modernism.

No, Sugar's Not Dead, Just Been to Wisconsin

Actually, Sugar didn't take a trip to Wisconsin at all. Only in her mind. She decided to go on strike for her legitimate rights as a canine and symbolically fled to an Illinois Motel 6 to demand better pay, er, food. She already gets the best, mind you: only organic chicken and lamb, nice and moist from the can, with a little kibble to keep her teeth healthy. But no. She believes herself entitled, as a purebred Poodle, to something yet better. There are PEOPLE who would eat the food she's been served (if they hadn't seen the can, naturally), but Sugar has trained her government (that would be me) to give her only what we ourselves will eat.

So now I cook for three. I know it seems ridiculous, but trust me, she refuses to eat dog food, and for a couple of weeks (our "motel in Illinois" weeks) we slugged it out. I put organic dog food and kibble in her bowl, she looked at it, sniffed, and trotted off. I tried spoon feeding it to her, even letting her lick it off my fingers. Still no dice. I tested out real turkey chunks with kernels of rice and a bit of kibble thrown in for texture, and she gobbled up the turkey, the rice, and left every last microscopic morsel of kibble in the pink bowl.

How does she know what's dog food and what isn't? Is it seasoning? The cans say there's seasoning in them. But Sugar doesn't trust anything that didn't once sit on our dinner plates, that wasn't cooked in a copper-bottomed pan. So who am I to fight that kind of persistence, that kind of innate culinary perception in one whose only crime is not to be human? I've given up the struggle. Sugar wins again. Now, a meal that used to sit on the mat for an hour is snaffled up in 1.5 seconds. That does warm me a little. After all, who isn't flattered when one's cooking is appreciated, even adored. After a meal now she licks her chops several times and gazes at me in perfect contentment. Well, damn her teeth, I say. She'll have to get used to a puppy tooth brush, and too bad.

So I have to say it's one for Sugar in New Jersey, zero so far for the politicians in Wisconsin. Maybe I ought to hire Sugar out to teach them how to make their demands more palatable to the public. She certainly has a will and a winning way.

Now on to agility training and learning to be a therapy dog (though she's a little selfish, perhaps, for that work, but we'll see).

Happy Valentine's Day, Sugar!

You didn't get flowers. I did. You didn't get chocolate; it's poisonous for dogs. Poor dogs, I feel for you. But you did get diced-up leftover tandoori chicken. I believe that on your canine palate, tandoori chicken was as good as any chocolate truffle. If it wasn't, you put on a good show for me, sweet compassionate little beast.

And another treat! For Valentine's Day I made an appointment for your first session at the groomer's, next Friday. I know you're going to thank me for that. All those razors and scissors, hoses, sudsy water, brushes and combs, ear swabs, tear stain solution. But think of how you'll look. Poodles are aristocratic dogs, and I'm told they feel unsettled if their appearance is neglected. Well, many women, especially on Valentine's Day, support your sensitivity on that issue, Sugar. So consider yourself lucky; think of it as a spa day.

Now on to you, dear reader. Am I wrong to suspect you're still wondering about the tandoori chicken? You wonder whether we're Indian, possibly "B'nai Menashe," one of the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel, lost to history until some weeks or months ago when located in Northern India. The one the new science of genetics very recently discovered languishing in the Far East (still genetically Jewish, but tandoori-loving and chopped liver-disdaining) and flown en masse back to the Homeland. But no, we're not that exotic. Indian food is as close as we've ever been to India, and now that cuisine has an additional significance in modern life, also tending towards the spiritual, as you shall soon understand.

This past weekend Sugar had an excellent adventure. For one thing, she met her first human child, a little two-year-old named Lucia. Lucia was here as a guest, the daughter of old childhood friends of my son Matt's. Matt was in NY on business, so they decided to rendezvous at his boyhood home, now chez Sugar, for an overnight visit.

I hadn't seen these young people in years. Who knew how they lived, what they ate? Matt couldn't give me much prior information. These days eating is itself a sort of religion. One has to be careful of what one puts on the table in order not to offend. It's a very PC world. People do get offended. In the olden days, if, as guests, we were not to eat something, we merely pushed the offending food around the plate. But we never said anything. So I decided to order in.

Indian food is safe. If guests are vegetarian or vegan, there's always something for them to eat. Lots of rice and lentils if all else is verboten. And tandoori chicken for the unenlightened. It goes without saying that pork will not be on the menu. In the end they turned out to be locavores. If you don't know what that means, contact me privately.

The friends arrived first. Lucia and Sugar circled each other for a few minutes, then wrestled over toys for half an hour or so. I offered cheese and crackers. At last the man of the hour trod across the threshold. My son Matt.

When Sugar beheld the face of her brother, it was electrifying. Her eyes went momentarily dim. Much like the reunion of Jacob and Esau; such fierce passion. She lost all reason. She skidded about on the tiles then jumped into his arms and planted a wet Valentine on his lips, a couple in his ears  and made multiple forays up his nostrils. He didn't even have to be introduced for her to go to work on him. No. Blood knows blood. They were soldered together from the first moment to the last, with only the brief interlude of a mid-Saturday afternoon nap draped round hubby's neck.

When Matt departed, backpack slung on his shoulder, carry-on luggage dragged down the driveway, Sugar gazed after him, leaving a steamy smear on the glass door. How to console her? How help her forget?

Tandoori chicken, canine cure-all to the rescue. Better than roses. Anyway, roses are poisonous to dogs. So many different diets. Happy Valentine's Day. Safest to give a card. Though that can also be eaten. And can be poisonous...

Can Jewish Moms make Poodle Pups Neurotic?

YES WE CAN!

Here's how toy Poodles are advertised: Put her in your purse and take her everywhere!

Well, not so fast. Aside from the fact, mentioned in an earlier post, that dogs are welcome almost nowhere in today's nanny state, the weather in the northeastern United States has made it virtually impossible for even Humans to go everywhere, never mind puppies in purses. It's just not that simple.

First of all, picture the landscape outside the back door: snow covered by ice, blown into an igloo by a wind storm, completely obscuring the furniture on the deck.

So I want to take her out, but there are so many obstacles. First I need her to release my Uggs from between her sharp little teeth. Then I need to put one on before she runs away with the other. She needs to wear her sweater, which she won't let me put over her front legs and head. And all that's before we venture through the door. (Full disclosure: complete failure so far. Sugar has never been outside except to go to the vet twice, in her carry-all; hasn't put paw to earth in her life.) This has to stop, I know. It's completely unacceptable, abnormal. And it is my fault.

But when I merely open the back door, Sugar begins to shake all over.

"Sugar," I beg, "don't you want to be like other dogs? To romp outdoors in the admittedly rock-hard snow?" Sugar scratches her hind parts as if I didn't just brush her, knowing Poodles get matted and must be brushed daily. Is she trying deliberately to make me look bad? "Sugar," I say sternly, "look at me." Sugar lowers her head to the floor ewe-like and mosies to her fleece-covered leopard-spotted bed adjacent to the space heater in the kitchen.

Well, I decided to take action. I hired a canine teacher, an expert. In one private lesson I learned that mom must have treats on her at all times for pup to know that when mom says "Come, Sugar," it means COME. One doesn't repeat the command. That's the most important lesson to teach a puppy, I found out. The "come" command (or request; Scott the trainer tells me it's more enlightened to say request these days, not that dogs are that sensitive to linguistic nuances, I imagine, but still we should be PC); the "come" command must always be followed by a food treat. And one must be unfailingly consistent. Scott advised me to get a kind of pet fanny-pack (which he wears) to carry around my pickled tongue and lox treats on my person, so there's never a time that I say, "Come, Sugar," and am unable to provide the food treat instantly. This is critical to conditioning dogs (and presumably getting Sugar outside someday).

Frankly, I've never been a big fan of fanny-packs. And I didn't see why I should invest in that kind of accessory when I already have about six dinner bags with long straps that I rarely use anymore. One of them is quite lovely, a Valentino bag, gold with a rhinestone logo fastening, that my daughter abjures and I couldn't sell on Ebay. So I sling that over my three layers of frigid weather clothing and wear it around the house. This way, Sugar knows that whenever I say, "Come, Sugar," she will be appropriately and consistently rewarded. And do you know what? It works. Sugar's never missed her cue. Not till today, when I cracked the back door open a smidgen.

It was sunny, strangely. Freezing but sunny. I dispensed with the outdoor gear, no boots, no sweater. Put some deli roast beef (medium rare) into my Valentino bag, opened the door, backed up as far as the gas grill and said, "Come, Sugar." I put on my merriest voice, as they tell you to do in the books. I knew not to repeat myself. Just held a morsel of beef on my palm and waited. I knew that Sugar knew. Sugar knew that I knew that Sugar knew. It was a stand-off. It was cold. I was outside and Sugar was in.

What to do? Give up all the gains and repeat the command? I mean the request? No way. The trainer costs big bucks. I inched closer to Sugar who stood stoically in the doorway. I, on hands and knees, on the creaking, frozen deck boards, beef on palm, waited for Sugar to comply. Sugar bent down too. Put her nose on the threshold. "Good girl!" I coaxed. We were nose to beef; my hind parts exposed to the wind, my Valentino bag dragging on the salt pellets.

The elements have a way of leveling stations in life. I was cold, Sugar, not so much. I wanted in, more than I wanted to win. Sugar's no dope. She held her ground.

I repeated the command, lame Human that I am, as if she wouldn't perceive my weakness.

"Please, Sugar," I said. "I'm begging you to eat this piece of meat. We can call it a draw. I don't care who's boss. Even though my being boss is for your own good, and you ought to remember that it's not for myself that I want you to go outside, I can live without it..." By the time I'd rationalized the whole thing to her she'd flicked out her tiny tongue, which has the consistency of wet velvet, swallowed the roast beef and curled up in her fleece bed. I, meanwhile, was trying to unravel my contorted body while figuring out a way to explain it all to Scott next Tuesday.

Lesson learned: between mothers and daughters it's always complicated. Do we need a trainer or a therapist? Suggestions solicited.

Canine Gastronomy

Sugar has news for Purina. And Iams; and the makers of canned organic dog food; and all producers of kibble. Sugar, a Poodle puppy, speaking for all canines, does not like to eat the same food every day. Call her picky, but she's made it clear to her Human. Three times a day I present her with expensive dog food. And three times a day, what does she do? She meanders towards the bowl, sniffs at if once or twice as though it's full of dead bugs, then turns tail and high-steps it back to her toys.

Not to worry, Animalists of the world. I'm not starving her. She does her obedience work (a ruse for giving her rich treats) and manages to snaffle down quantities of pickled tongue, Kosher hot dogs (all beef, low fat, low sodium), turkey chili, Kings' chopped liver, and Scottish smoked salmon wheels filled with veggie cream cheese. These, she eats like a hog (pardon me, Sugar, should you ever learn to read, for the unflattering allusion).

In fact, we went to the vet for her second checkup today, and Sugar has gained 25% of her former body weight. She's gone from 3 pounds to 4, in three weeks. I was nervous at the vet's, afraid I'd come up short, that Dr. Lauren would eye me as some kind of ogre, that Sugar would be underweight because she doesn't eat the three "wholesome" meals daily I've been brainwashed by the pet food industry to put before her in her pink bowl.

So, after her recovery from her two shots, one against rabies that really hurt, and after vomiting in her carry-all in the car on the way home, I allowed her digestive system to rest for awhile while I tried to figure out how to craft the proper diet for a tiny canine.

Dinner time arrived. I got out the pink bowl. I was thinking kibble, I was thinking can. Sugar gazed at me. I gazed back at her. I reached for the huge bag of healthy-for-the-teeth organic kibble. Sugar whimpered and tilted her ears.

Then it hit me. A house pet is not an animal, really. A house pet is a member of the household.

Sugar's not stupid. Poodles are the geniuses of dogdom. She sees what we eat. She gets the scraps in so-called training sessions and when her Human just feels generous. She knows. We don't eat the same food every day.

I hope that Purina and Iams and all the other dog food manufacturers don't try to advertise on this site (fat chance), because they'd have a rude awakening. Sugar's Human broke all the rules for puppy feeding. Here's what I gave her for din-din: a bit of kibble  (her teeth! who wants to take a chance?) totally masked by a spoonful of chopped liver, all moistened with chicken soup -- with noodles and veggies, of course. This Sugar gulped down with the kind of abandon every mother loves to see in her young. She ate a real meal! In her pink bowl. Not from my fingers. I was kvelling. I praised her to high heaven. Gave her an extra piece of lox.

So what's the moral of the story? I believe it is that all sentient beings love variety. We don't want to eat the same meals every day, we don't want to think the same thoughts every day (though we mostly do), we abhor a life of endless monotony. We don't really believe advertising.

When you bring a Poodle puppy into your home you must assume that the puppy will grow to be like you. And so Sugar has: We like the same foods, we like them switched around, we're both kind of beige-ish blond, we both don't like to get really dirty, we both like to kiss on the lips, we both like to eat frequently and in small quantities. Maybe there's some truth to adage that Humans resemble their dogs. I'm not sure though in our case who's influencing whom. But I'm sure of one thing: food is the key to intimacy. When you know what your significant others, any one of them, likes to eat, you hold the key to his or her heart. I want to hold and turn that key. Because I think I'm in love. Puppy love is like baby love: so special, so warm, so lovely. It lifts one to a higher sphere of experience. Knowing what gives your little loved one pleasure: so simple, so pure.

Two X-rated jokes from Sugar

Sugar overheard a couple of dirty-ish jokes the other day as her Human was chatting on the phone with her friend Lynda from New York. She laughed so hard she had to hold her sides with her paws. Now she wants to share them with you. Actually, Sugar's not sure she gets the jokes, so if she doesn't tell them very well, you'll understand and won't scoff. She's just a beginner.

Sugar says:

Two yeshiva bochers go into a bar to have a drink. While they're sitting at the bar, a sexy blonde sidles up and sits next to one of the yeshiva bochers. She whispers in his ear, "Can I give you a blow job?"

The yeshiva bocher rushes red-faced out into the street. His friend runs after him. "What did she say to you?" his friend asks.

"I don't know exactly, I didn't hear it all. But it was something about a job."

Ba-dum.

An elderly couple in their nineties lives in a nursing home. They're in separate rooms, but they still like to have sex. They arrange to meet every afternoon in the TV room, where they sit in their wheel chairs and pretend to watch television, while she holds his penis.

One afternoon the husband doesn't show up. The wife wonders, but doesn't say anything. Next day he doesn't show up again. She wheels herself into his room and confronts him.

"Have you found someone else?" she demands. He shrugs.

"Is she younger than me?" "No," he says.

"So, is she prettier?" "He shakes his head.

"So what does she have that I don't have?"

"Parkinson's," he says.

Oy, forgive Sugar. She's entering her tweens and testing the waters of young adulthood. She should know better, but it's a rainy gloomy afternoon and one must entertain oneself somehow.

On a Day When There's Nothing to Add

On a day like today, when the populations of the world huddled together on top of the earth's axis, watching, waiting, to see what will shake out of Egypt and change the world order forever, Sugar took the pause that refreshes.

Aware there was not a single thing she could do to affect the outcome, bored already with the displays of camels, horses, Molotov cocktails lighting the Cairo night sky, one eyelid drooping as the crowds pumped their fists and shouted slogans, Sugar decided to take a Zen day. She said no to learning anything new. She's watched ABC's Christiane Amanpour's interview with Hosni Mubarak and feels she now knows everything she needs to know till tomorrow's NEW news.

Sphinx-like, her world turns moment by moment. She doesn't remember the past and doesn't fret about the future. She's not a current events junkie like her Human. If she could speak English she'd say, WTF, there's always something horrible going on...where's my pickled tongue?

I admonished her. "Sugar," I said. "Where's your sense of civic duty? We must remain active and vigilant to survive in this world, Sugar. We planned to learn the Stay today." Sugar yawned till her eyes rolled back in her skull, then lay her belly on the floor and stretched her legs out as far as they would go.

Oh, I thought. She wants to start by doing some Yoga. I unrolled my purple mat. Lay on the mat, flat on my back, yawned and stretched my legs and arms out as far as they would go. All the while Sugar licked my face, both nostrils, two ear canals, and nibbled the chin hair I've been too lazy to pluck. In my Zen haze I wondered whether Sugar could eventually be trained to nip off that coarse hair, but never mind, it was only a daydream.

Yes, I exhaled. I'm setting a good example for my dog. She IS learning something today. She's learning how to step back from the world, learning perspective. Thank God puppies have Humans to teach them how to think and conduct their lives. Otherwise, they'd live in abject misery -- like your average Egyptian.

"Tomorrow we'll learn the Stay", I mumbled to Sugar. If there is a tomorrow, my internal Jewish voice jumped in.

News Flash: Sugar Notices the News

Sugar, who is nobody's fool, took to watching TV news today when the camel corps galloped into Cairo's Tahrir Square. I think there were horses, or nags or something, as well, because Sugar kept yipping at the crowds separating and jostling on the screen.

She sat down right in front of the set and lifted her front paw when a picture appeared showing a camel rider slashing a large sign with a photo of Mubarak touched up to resemble Hitler, with a little black mustache and swept-over-the-forehead hair.

Sugar held her right paw in mid-air. It looked like a salute.

I yelled, "Stop it, Sugar!" I hope she isn't a fan of the Mubarak regime. That wouldn't make her a popular Poodle. And naturally, we want our little ones to grow up to be popular among their peers, lest they feel like dorks. For a parent (or a human) there's nothing more humiliating than a teen's accusing eyes, eyes that moodily say, "You made me turn out this way. I have no friends and it's all because of you." 

We also did some clicker training today. Today's lesson, with the help of Cheerios and tiny bits of pickled tongue, was, "Look me in the eye, Sugar," then click, then toss a Cheerio on the floor. It's very important for the young to look you straight in the eye, for their own safety. Sugar got it. She's terribly intelligent. I hope she's not betting on the wrong horse (or camel) in Egypt.

Sugar Ignores Egypt

This morning, with Egyptian fellahin ranting on the TV news, Sugar managed to ignore all noisy rioting and learned The Sit. Yes, friends, she is the genius of the canine kingdom.

We started with clicker training, but progressed within the hour to the verbal cue (naturally, there was a treat involved; in this case, Cheerios, which she adores even more than pickled tongue, to which Jewish Poodles seem to be partial, though the tongue I bought is from the French recipe, not wanting to take unnecessary chances). The Sit is a big deal. No more jumping up. No more uncivilized beastliness. Sugar sits on command, even with the television blaring. Sugar is becoming a trained dog. My desire for her is to be the best behaved dog in town. A dog one can take anywhere, in my purse even. Only glitch in my dream is that no one will have her anymore: where can you take even a tiny dog these days? To a cafe? The supermarket? The deli? The therapist? No. Signs everywhere: No Pets Allowed. Rules everywhere. With all the business about animal rights, it seems to me that dogs have fewer rights than ever, fewer rights of assembly than Egyptians. Maybe someday, when she's a mature dog, when she grows to her full weight of 5 pounds, she can rally house pets in Lafayette Park to bark and mew and cheep their heads off for their legitimate rights.

But Sugar's human, sadly, IS interested in the upheavals in the Middle East. And Sugar's human is not optimistic. Without haranguing you, precious reader, with opinions about El Baradei and the Muslim Brotherhood, I will make just one prediction:

I predict that before Egyptians enjoy Western-style democracy (versus Muslim-style Sharia "democracy," involving stonings, beheadings, amputations and suchlike for infractions of the law), Sugar will be taught to jump through flaming hula hoops. Just one human's prediction, and God I wish it weren't so. But she's so... damned...smart.

Sugar and Dr. Freud

I don't think that Snoopy, our ginger-haired mutt (of blessed memory), ever put in an appearance in my dream life. But then, he was really my daughter's dog, and I merely the supplier of food, the cleaner of vomit, the chaser off the newly washed floors, etc. Apparently he never dug his way into my subconscious.

Sugar, on the other hand, only 14 weeks old, only two weeks with us, put in a loud and boisterous appearance in a dream last night. It was frightening, more nightmare than dream. There she stood, high on a rock where I couldn't reach her, barking her head off, barking till I wanted to dash my head on that rock.

Which is odd, because Sugar hasn't yet barked even once. Hubby and I have never heard the sound of her future barks; she resorts to whining, weeping and howling when she wants to mold our behavior. But, lurking in the back of my mind is something I read in the dozens of dog books that now lie ignored in a pile on the bedroom floor. The ominous line: "Small Poodles are known to be yappy and CAN bark a lot." This, to me, is truly the stuff of nightmare activity.

I gave a good deal of thought to the dream this morning. My mind hearkened back to a course I took in college on the interpretation of dreams. (Yes, dear reader, in those benighted days of all-women's colleges, an elite education consisted in courses that would have absolutely no practical application in the real world. And I had little interest in the real world at the time. I loved to read, loved to learn, wanted marriage, children and maybe to write later on, after the kids no longer needed me. And it worked out! So do not accept any belly-aching from me in future concerning my lack of a serious career, OK? Call me on it, I need sometimes to be reminded.)

Anyway, where were we? Yes, dream interpretation. My course was primarily focused on Freud's seminal work The Interpretation of Dreams. This was a book in which I was much interested (I think I got an A for the course, btw), especially as I leafed through it and picked apart all the types of dreams that pertained to my personal dream life. For the rest, I seemed to recall having a copy of Cliff's Notes on hand.

If you listen to Freud (who is being discredited these days, but who isn't?) dreams are either wish fullfillments, manifestations of fears, or based on penis envy. Freud was big on penis envy and deemed it the cause of all neuroses in women (which I never could understand as in my young years I often worried about the vulnerability of having one's private parts dangling between one's legs. Anyone could kick you there! A most alarming thought to me, and I felt rather sorry for people with dangling privates).

But back to Sugar and my dream. We can rule out penis envy for obvious reasons -- unless barking is a metaphor for male aggression. But I'm going to let that one go, not being a professional psychoanalyst. Now, wish fulfillment? Definitely not. In fact, the dream prompted me to enroll Sugar in puppy training classes already this morning. Don't even want to take the chance. But fear? Ah, fear. The motivator of so much of our behavior. I do fear an incessantly barking little canine, an uncontrollably yipping 4 pound beast consisting mostly of voice.   

Living in fear, however, is a terrible way to conduct one's life. So as I write I'm trying to come up with the positive, modern, feminist, non-Freudian interpretation of this dream. And here it is.

Sugar stands on the tall rock. She's telegraphing me a message: I am Woman, hear me roar. I'm not roaring at You, my human, I'm simply a modern female puppy, and I want the world to know it. This is such a lame interpretation that even I blush to write it. But when it comes to our canine "others," we do tend to grow silly and soft in the head. This is a condition I already have enough of. In conclusion, I hope Sugar will oblige me by staying out of my dreams. She already controls the house and the life, but please, Sug, tread carefully on my subconscious.

French Poodles Vs. a Sex Life: You Think Babies are Tough?

From the mists of history, from cave paintings of canines in southern France, from the dawning of Western civilization in Europe in the fifteenth century, French Poodles have been identified. Dwelling in caves and huts with their masters, they proved to be expert duck and truffle hunters, who stayed close to their masters and obeyed like no other dog. In fact, so attached were they to their humans that they were soon bred as companion dogs and the grunt work of retrieving and sniffing out grungy stuff from the earth and water left to pigs and other lower breeds of hounds.

And so, after thirteen days, Sugar and I are attached at the hip. Almost literally. She won't have it any other way. Sugar defines the lap dog. She makes Lady Bertram's pug, of Mansfield Park, seem stand-offish by comparison. This is truly a wonder for me. I don't think that even my mother ever loved me this intensely.

There is, however, a downside to this Poodle mania. It's called the husband in my life, who also loves Sugar. But who also enjoys recreational sex, as do I. This is not at all racy stuff, dear reader, because we're old and we're married and we're now animalists, so we can address the earthy issues.

Thirteen nights -- no sex yet.  But why? you ask.

Well, how to explain? Sugar sleeps in her crate below my side of the bed. Hubby sleeps at my left. The first few nights after Sugar's dramatic air rescue, she tended to cry her eyes out in the crate. Then she bonded with me, strongly. A regimen was formed whereby hubby would hold her in his lap downstairs while I high-tailed it upstairs to have my bubble bath, cleanse and cream my face, get in nightie, etc. Then hubby would bring her up and we'd urge her into her crate alongside the bed. However, until I was actually physically in the bed, she cried. Not only did she cry, but she shrieked and howled like a wolf cub. Thus she trained me to quicken my formerly relaxing bedtime routine. Once we were both safely under the covers, Sugar could dry her eyes on her fleece mattress and drift off to puppy dreamland.

Well, after a couple of nights with little or no vocal objection, we thought we might try IT. Under the eiderdown we snuggled, struggling to strip off winter nightwear, locking lips, getting cozy, warming up...then...rustling. We ignored it. I snuggled up to hubby; still ready. Then whimpering. Snuggled up to hubby and heard only muffled sounds of laughter. He was laughing! It was over. I knew at once it wouldn't happen with Sugar beside us at the foot of the bed.

Next night. I decided that Sugar could be crated and left safely in the kitchen for ten minutes -- that's all we needed -- ten minutes before we began the nighttime ritual. You'd think she'd understand the need: she's a FRENCH Poodle, for god's sake. I put all her favorite toys inside: the dragon that squeaks, a tennis ball, a bully stick (do you know what a bully stick it? Because I didn't till last week when I was out buying puppy supplies -- it's a stick make out of bulls' private parts! Puppies and dogs LOVE to chew on them). So anyway, we tiptoed upstairs ("Mummy's coming back in one minute, Sugar, don't worry, Mummy's coming right back") raced to the bed, ripped off only essential items and locked lips. Everything was going so well. Suddenly hubby froze. "What's wrong?" I said. "She's howling, don't you hear her?" I didn't. "Ignore it," I said. "How can I ignore that?" I lifted my head from beneath hubby's hulking frame and I heard. The sounds of an entire asylum baying at the full moon.

However, dear reader, I want to report that we dim humans outsmarted the Poodle at last. We PRETENDED to go to sleep last night. (Second attempt of the evening, bear in mind.) And we fooled her. She quieted down and fell asleep. And even though we were exhausted we pulled it off. Was it lovemaking? That's a stretch. But where there's a will there's a way. So they say, whoever THEY are. I'll keep you posted.

State of the Union: Sugar and I Kiss on the Lips

From Hot Springs, Arkansas, nestled in a national park, deep in a hinterland of rolling hills and verdant valleys, she flew. (Actually the breeder put her on a plane in Little Rock.) On wings of steel she flew through the day and night skies (Delta screwed up and forgot to put her on two flights in Atlanta: Fie on you, Delta, inhumane lumpen) and landed, bedraggled, quivering, on the gray dirty snow of Newark Airport's cargo terminal. Thence, from a filthy crate into my unsure arms.

Was it love at first sight? Not so much. It was more akin to like at first sight (she's a looker), relief at her arrival at one in the morning, and a sense of duty. A feeling inside that demanded, "This is now your life for the next fifteen years, God willing she should live so long and you don't accidentally kill her, you inexperienced idiot, she's so damn tiny and vulnerable.Yikes, what have I got myself into, what did I need this for? I was free as a bird."   Not Brangelina on their first movie set together.

So what changed? Well, love grows under certain circumstances. When you have the right partner.

After twelve difficult, lonely, boring, dutiful days of following to the letter instructions from the Dog Whisperer and other animalist sages, Sugar has trained me. She's a mensch, indulges me. She's followed my bumbling attempts to house train her with good grace, trying her best to please me. And when she makes a mistake, she runs to her puppy papers, squats, and does her utmost to squeeze something out to show me she knows better, all the while peering up at me with her chocolate eyes, a sheepish grin on her face. She shows me by her every gaze, by her every effort at good behavior, that she loves me, nay, adores me. That the sun no longer shines for her unless I'm present among the rays. This is beautiful. This is irresistible. Sugar, instructing me in how to treat her and love her. Sugar, a canine, making a human more human. 

So what is the secret of this so-far happy relationship?. Here, I warn you, I expect and intend to be terribly un-PC. I did a lot of research on the kind of dog I wanted in my life. Narrowed it down to toy Poodles (not too big to carry in a bag, thus not restricting my freedom of movement; intelligent; fluffy; good hair-dos.) Then I found a breeder with puppies borne of generations of champion sires and dams (see links below). Next, asked him to give me the best of the litter (he said Sugar is the one he'd keep if he could keep a pup from this whelping). It was a shidduch! A deal a Jewish matchmaker would negotiate. Here's what I have to offer (good home, enough money to groom a Poodle every six weeks because they care about their dignity, enough money to pay for said Poodle as quality is never cheap, this is a universal truism).


And what did I get in return? A Poodle with a scroll of a pedigree. Poodles are bred by respectable breeders to be people-companions, to be healthy, intelligent, sprightly, fine-figured. They call this conformation. And apparently Sugar is "stacked." That's the term in dog show lingo for good physical form. Not that it matter so much around here as we both pretty much slouch around the house during these snowy days. But whatever. It's important. It's pedigree. I'm not saying other dogs can't be sweet. I'm merely pointing out that I went about getting the kind of dog I wanted in a logical way, even if it was mildly slapdash. But that's just me and the best I'm capable of.

So, dear reader, allow me some scope to extrapolate from this experience to human life. How many marriages based on love at first sight stand the test of time? Some don't even make it the twelve days Sugar and I have now traversed. How do such marriages often end up? At the animal shelter for humans, waiting, waiting, for another human to come along and choose the reject from love-at-first-sight. No, a relationship has to be worked on, hard and always. This has been my human experience as well. If I ever had to do it over again (poo poo, throw salt over my shoulder, hail Mary), I'd look at someone's pedigree first, I think. I'd check out where the dog (make that man) came from, who he is, what he's done. What is his potential for growth, for love and learning? Only then (as with Sugar) would I kiss him on the lips. Thanks God, as my mother would say, I've been lucky in all my relationships. But it didn't have to be so. Hearken unto my voice, O pet seeker. Hearken. Pedigreed dogs are expensive, but toy dogs eat very little (Sugar, only 1 1/2 cups of food a day!), live for many years, and end up costing about a nickel a day over a lifetime, unless you lose it in a snowbank).

So, Sugar and I kiss on the lips. Her muzzle is small, her mouth black, her tiny tongue rough, pink and a bit dry. She gets carried away and also likes to lick inside my nostrils -- salty, I presume. I let her. It doesn't even disgust me anymore. What's happening to me? Am I becoming some sort of animalist? That damn little bitch is altering my very self-image. Ah, the power of pups. Do they they know their own power? Sugar probably does. She's a French Poodle, the genius of the canine world.

I wish you puppy kisses too. They're pleasant, and don't lead to any further decision-making.

Off Topic but On Point -- Tiger Moms

Dear Ms. Chua,

Don't make me laugh.

Jewish mothers, of kids and pups, to use one example, cannot be Tiger moms, ever. I don't care if you were a refugee from Hitler and ended up in the Jewish ghetto in Shanghai. I don't care if you are one of the Cochin Jews, descended from The Ten Lost Tribes, and re-converted back to Judaism in the late twentieth century, after two millenia thinking you were Chinese Confucians. The thing you ask is genetically impossible.

You see, first and foremost, Chinese children arrive in armadas, they rain down from the heavens and swell the planet; so much so that their nasty national dictatorship feels the need to limit this endless arriving. Jewish children on the other hand (1 million of whom were murdered in the Holocaust) are a dwindling breed. Indeed, the Jewish people has not yet replaced the six million souls lost in history's greatest Pogrom. We're a people of 16 million worldwide, while in one Chinese town alone you can find that many individuals ( but how individual are they really allowed to be?).

So, Ms. Chua, you think we're going to leave one of these endangered creatures out on the porch in a snowstorm because the three-year old made us a birthday card and colored outside the lines? Hunh! We're going to photograph the hell out of that scribbled card, email it to all our relatives, friends and casual acquaintances, then tape it to the fridge and slap colored stars all over it. After which we will smother the little one with kisses and coos of praise, tell her she's the greatest thing since chopped liver (which, when my mother makes it, is very great indeed: the secret is shmaltz), fasten the top button of her sweater, even though the thermometer on the back door registers seventy degrees, and nag (I mean encourage) her to draw another picture -- maybe right now! We will get out the crayons and construction paper and prepare our trembling bosoms to behold the bloom of genius. We trust our children, you see. 

We would never resort to screaming and ridicule. That's abuse! We urge, repeat ourselves, beg, nag, cajole, ask the child to make mummy proud, etc. Keep those crayons lying about just in case. Enroll the child in an art course for toddlers. That sort of thing. Gentle. Non-coercive. I'll bet it works as often as your method, Ms. Chua. Haven't you ever heard of Freud?

Sugar, I tell you, would not stand for your type of discipline. Never. She would whine till I couldn't stand it for another second, and then I'd give her a biscuit from my palm and pray she quiets down. You see, I already know she's the genius of the canine kingdom, and some day, she'll draw me that picture. It is not totally far-fetched. Her breeder tells me her sire, Prince, knows 250 English words. Do you know that many, Ms. Chua? And woof isn't one of them.

Yes, still brain-diminished, dear reader, but hang on with hope and fortitude. Sugar's only beginning her second week with her Jewish mother.  

Sugar on My Lap

First post with Sugar sitting on my lap as I write. Pardon me for any lapses in thought, as I must stroke Sugar every ten seconds to quell her curiosity about the tapping of the keys and put her back into her sleepy trance.

The subject I'd like to address today is house training, for dogs and humans. To begin, the sage and solon of doggery today is The Dog Whisperer, Cesar Milan. According to Cesar, the order of importance of training any pup is: discipline, exercise, affection. The discipline consists in getting one's puppy to "go potty, Sugar," at this point. This entails watching the pup like a hawk and getting her on the pads at the moment she begins to sniff the floor and circle. Then we whisk her to the pads, and like idiots repeat her mantra, "Go Potty," about twenty times till she forces out whatever is in her (merely to oblige us) to heaps of praise and a sweet treat or a milk bone (in her case a quarter of a milk bone, as she only weights 3.1 pounds). We, meaning I, repeat the drill upon waking, after breakfast, mid-morning, after lunch, mid-afternoon, after dinner, mid-evening, before bed, and any other time she sniffs and circles. Dear reader, bear with me as I move through this inarticulate period of puppy house training. It's mind-numbing, and not at all conducive to clever ideas. The clever idea  itself is to get through this period and earn freedom to think and try to entertain you. So hang on. Read inane scribblings for a few weeks. Please indulge me and I promise to to take plenty of CoQ to get my brain in order again. Or just in order.

Now to the point: Discipline, exercise, affection. For Sugar, this means potty training misery for a time and endless shrieks about chewing potentially poisonous house plants. Discipline is hard, yes. But utterly necessary. It's apparently a fact that the primary reason dogs end up in shelters is because they haven't been disciplined not to leave steaming messes all over their humans' carpets and newly re-sanded hardwood floors.

Next: exercise. Most breeds must be exercised vigorously. This means three-mile walks thrice a day. This is also discipline plus exercise for the human. In Sugar's case, I'm delighted to report, it means that I (or hubby) sit on the floor and throw a tennis ball down the length of the kitchen tiles about twenty times, and exercise is over -- for both of us.

Next, affection: You will have no difficulty understanding by now that if I had to take 3 three-mile walks a day in sub-freezing weather, ice and snow  permanent fixtures underfoot, that even in Uggs I would probably be sorely tried to feel affection for my dog. I apologize to Animalists the world over, but we're all God's creatures, individual as the stars in the sky. This is what (or whom) toy Poodles are for. I can smother her with kisses, she has a tiny dry pink tongue with which to smother me with kisses, and so we get on together just fine.

And when you think about it, isn't it the same in human life? We need discipline (how else to rise in the morning when in the middle of a rare sweet dream?) and put down the novel at night before 3am. We need exercise in order to continue to consume the delicious meals served by local gourmet establishments and brought to our door by Delivery Now. And we need affection. We need love. We crave love. We die for love. We search for love on J Date and Christian Meeting. We hook up in bars. We dress up in sexy garb (we hope) for the other in our life. Without love, life is a dog in an animal shelter for three score and seven.

And so I come to my conclusion, born of the dizzying watchfulness for sniffing and circling: People and dogs are not alike. We live in the reverse order. We need affection before discipline; discipline might be the by-product of love. We need love before exercise: exercise too might be a by-product of love and the wish to please the beloved. (This naturally pertains only to the lazy among us.)

Yes, affection must come first for humans. And that perhaps is why God gave humans dominion over the animal kingdom. It's a privilege to love. All the rest is secondary. We train and instruct our pets, give them our love, and become more human in the process. It's why I have Sugar. All glibness aside, I'm trying to increase my capacity for humaneness, for what it means to be human. At my age (61, if I haven't mentioned that hateful number before) one begins to peer over the summit of the mountain and wonder what the rest is for. It looks so grubby. What's to look forward to? Drooping skin? Arthritis? And bingo! An idea. Perhaps this time is for enlarging one's capacity for what it means to be human.

I promise you more coherent and lively posts in future. If you will stick by me. Support yourself by the knowledge that in indulging me, you too are increasing your capacity for what it means to be human. Or just consider it discipline, and exercise for the eyes. Affectionately...